THE LOSTBORN SAGA
Empire of Ashes
CHAPTER 1
THE NIGHT IN BERIA
Rain fell in relentless sheets over Beria that March night of 1900. The rented building on Alder Street shuddered with every gust, its thin walls trembling as if afraid of the storm itself. Water streaked the warped windowpanes, turning the dim streetlamps into trembling halos of gold.
Inside, the small apartment smelled of simmering stew. A pot rattled softly on the stove while a woman stirred, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her hair pinned hastily. Behind her, the radio crackled, its signal wavering between static and speech.
Near the window, a little girl swung her legs, bright-eyed despite the late hour.
"Mumma, when will Dad arrive?" she asked.
The mother smiled without turning. "Soon, baby. He must be on his way home."
Thunder rolled low across the sky, shaking dust from the ceiling beams.
The radio voice sharpened suddenly.
"…the attack on the council meeting has caused three deaths and five injuries. The attackers' identities remain unknown. Military commanders are investigating…"
The mother froze, hand mid-stir.
The girl tilted her head. "Mumma… why do people kill each other?"
Only the rain answered. Then the mother lowered the flame and looked at her daughter, kneeling a short distance away.
"No one is born evil," she said gently. "And no one is born good either. The world is full of both light and dark. Sometimes people lose their way."
The girl whispered, trembling: "I'm afraid of being killed in a war. I don't want to lose you."
The mother's eyes softened as she met her daughter's gaze. "My love, I'm always with you."
The girl's lips curved into a faint smile. "I love you."
Then the world shattered.
A deafening blast tore through the building next door. Walls convulsed. Glass exploded inward. Smoke, fire, and splinters filled the air. The ceiling cracked; bricks groaned.
The little girl lay crumpled, dust choking her lungs, ears ringing. She pushed herself upright.
"Mumma?"
Through the jagged hole where the neighboring wall had once stood, figures moved deliberately, boots crushing glass beneath them. One stepped closer. Even through the haze, she felt his gaze — cold, calculating, inhumanly steady.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single stare.
Then—she woke with a violent gasp.
The rain was gone. The warmth was gone. Only the sharp bite of night air, the smell of wet cobblestones, the distant careless laughter.
Her heart pounded as her hands searched for dust, blood, her mother's apron.
There was nothing.
Only darkness. And the lingering certainty that what she had seen was not merely a dream.
Two years later, the storm had changed its shape.
It no longer howled through broken windows. It lived instead in files stacked high on iron desks, in ink-stained reports, in the strained silence of a military office that never truly slept.
The headquarters in Beria stood rigid and gray beneath a pale morning sky. Boots struck the stone floors in hurried rhythm. Clerks carried folders from room to room. A telegraph clattered without pause. Somewhere down the corridor, a typewriter hammered like distant gunfire.
A new case had arrived.
The murder of a woman and her child.
In the central office, a group of officers stood around a scarred wooden table. The air smelled of tobacco and damp wool uniforms.
"Did you find out why they killed that family?" Scarlett asked sharply.
She stood near the head of the table, posture straight, gloves still on, as though she had no intention of staying long. Her dark hair was pinned tightly beneath her hat, but her eyes betrayed her restraint.
One of the investigators cleared his throat.
"The woman had taken a loan of two hundred," he said, glancing at the report in his hand. "She paid every installment on time. But the lenders demanded more—interest that was never part of the agreement. She refused."
He hesitated.
"They killed her. Not just her," he added, his voice hardening. "Her baby as well. Brutally."
The room fell silent.
Scarlett's fingers tightened on the edge of the table. A flush rose to her cheeks, yet the fire in her eyes did not fade.
"That doesn't make sense," she burst out. "How can someone kill like that—and we can do nothing?"
Every head turned. Pens stopped moving. Even the telegraph seemed to quiet.
Her voice grew stronger, fed by something deeper than anger.
"Is this justice?" she demanded. "Every day, people die. Families lose their homes. Children starve. And what do we do, Commander? Sit here and wait for orders?"
The words hung like smoke in the air.
Commander Nolan remained calm, almost weary, pen gliding across his paper as if Scarlett's words were background noise.
Finally, he set the pen down and looked up at her.
"I understand your frustration," he said evenly. "But if we act against orders, we will be suspended. Or worse."
No mockery. Only fact.
The staff shifted uneasily. No one spoke.
Outside the tall windows, the city carried on—carriages rolling over wet streets, merchants opening doors, children running between buildings, unaware of the reports stamped confidential.
Inside, silence deepened. Scarlett's breathing slowed, though the fire in her eyes remained. She looked around—at the officers avoiding her gaze, at the stacks of unsolved cases, at the quiet machinery of obedience.
Two years had passed since that night of another house exploding in Beria. Two years, and the world had not grown kinder.
Commander Nolan picked up his pen again.
"File it," he said quietly.
And the machine continued to run.
Scarlett left the office without another word.
The corridor felt narrower than before, the air heavier. Boots echoed behind her, typewriters resumed their mechanical chatter, and the machine of order continued as if nothing had fractured inside that room.
Outside, the sky hung low and gray over Beria. Scarlett stepped into the chill air and crossed the courtyard toward her car. She opened the door, slid into the driver's seat, and shut it firmly, sealing herself in silence.
For a moment, she simply sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, jaw tight.
A knock came against the passenger window.
She looked up.
Paul stood there, his expression unreadable. Without waiting for an invitation, he opened the door and settled into the seat beside her.
"You seemed very frustrated in front of the commander," he said calmly, closing the door behind him. "I understand that."
Scarlett stared ahead.
"I lost my wife and my little girl in a case like that too," he continued, his voice steady in a way that felt practiced.
That made her turn.
"You tried to find them?" she asked.
"Every day." His jaw tightened. "My wife's body was completely burned. And my daughter…" His voice faltered for the first time. "We couldn't even find her."
His hand suddenly struck the steering wheel with a sharp thud. The sound cracked through the confined space of the car.
"I want to find who they were," he said, anger breaking through his restraint. "And why they did it. I don't care what the high-ups say."
Silence settled between them again, but it was different now—shared.
Scarlett reached toward the back seat and pulled a folded newspaper onto her lap. The paper was slightly damp from the weather. She unfolded it slowly, scanning the bold headline.
"The Cult Who Will Reshape the World," she read aloud.
Paul exhaled softly. "You've heard of them?"
"It says they operate from the shadows," Scarlett replied, eyes moving across the page. "Their ambitions are unknown. Their identities are unknown."
"Just rumors," Paul said.
Scarlett lowered the paper slightly. "So what's special about them?"
Paul looked at her then, truly looked at her, his expression no longer calm but serious—almost cautious.
"The rumors," he said quietly, "whatever fragments we've managed to gather… they all say the same thing."
Scarlett waited.
"They're awakened."
The word lingered between them, heavier than it should have been.
At that moment, something moved beyond the windshield.
A flash of color against the gray sky.
A phoenix—brilliant and impossibly vivid—swept past the car, its wings cutting through the damp air. For a heartbeat, both of them forgot to breathe as it hovered near the streetlamp, its feathers catching what little light remained.
Then, with a powerful beat of its wings, it rose higher.
Higher.
Until it vanished into the clouds.
Neither Scarlett nor Paul spoke.
But something had shifted.
And somewhere far above the city, unseen forces were already in motion.
Chapter 1 end